


Show Me

by plaisirparkway



Series: Show Me [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Marking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Vaginal Fingering, but its not overt, dom!Geralt, handjob, ish! there's some powerplay stuff, reference to off-page parent death, sub!Reader, very light:, virgin!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: Geralt doesn’t relax as you slide one hand down his shoulder to the broad plate of his chest. You let it linger there, waiting long, long moments between his heartbeats. This next thing feels easy, as though your body knows what it wants to do, even if your brain does not. You rise up on toes to bring your mouth as close to his ear as you can without his help. Your voice drops to a whisper.“I want your horrors.” You pause. “And I’m willing.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: Show Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826374
Comments: 24
Kudos: 302
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Show Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also on Tumblr, same username, plaisirparkway, same fic title! I’ve been really compelled by the way Geralt tells the story of his first monster, and the way he reacts to Ostrit’s fascination with Princess Adda. Anyway, this is part one of two, because the second part will get more into Geralt’s thought process and what being a real man is about. (also we might get some sex teacher-Geralt...)

You’ve done well in the neighboring market and the pockets sewn into your dress are heavy enough with coins. Though the walk is long, at least you _can_ walk, instead of paying Stuart’s boy to cart you back, just as he’d taken you there with your wares. You’d sold them all, every last thing, and the thought makes a little smile cross your face. It was probably a dangerous thing, travelling on foot, but you’d made it back, all in one piece. 

Inside the tavern, you’d sat and had a beer and a bit of bread, just because your stomach was entirely empty, but you knew dinner was waiting at home. The people at the tavern never bothered you much. Sometimes passing strangers (strange men) gave you a hard time.

But the owner and his wife usually made them leave you alone, even if they’d looked at you strangely. You’d had one pity marriage proposal, in the time after your father. But the home you owned was your own, your craft was your own and you didn’t see why you should have to marry a boy whose mother pinched him when he faltered, and couldn’t even look you in the eye when he asked. 

No. In fact, you weren’t sure you’d ever want a boy at all. So few of them even made you remember that _romance_ and _desire_ were words in the language let alone things that were meant to be part of your life. 

This _man_ though. He at least made you _look_. 

If the white hair and the big swords and perpetual scowl weren’t a dead giveaway, the fact that he hadn’t gotten out of the village already, told you the man--the witcher--didn’t realize what was to come. 

You watch, bundling your scarf on at the doorway as he has fiery words with the barman before slinking outside. You follow with quiet footsteps. It was cold, like each day had been for weeks, but it was a cold preparing for something else entirely.

“Full up, then?” 

He turns to face you when you speak. You know you haven’t taken him by surprise. Eyes like dark sunshine stare back at you, his mouth turned downward in a frown. 

“It’s the storm,” you go on, pointing a finger skyward. His gaze follows suit, brows coming together. The clouds were really just beginning to come in, barely marking what was sure to be a dizzying snow. “No one wants to be caught out in it.” 

His hands clench into tight fists, before he releases them again. “How far to the next town?”

You wince. “A few hours ride, if your horse is very fast. It took me the full day to walk back. You won’t make it there before...” You trailed off as one soft, frosty snowflake landed on your eyelashes. He frowned.

“I can put you up,” you say. You give him your name, and tell him where your house is, “I know who you are, Geralt of Rivia. I know that you’re just passing through. That you’ll need a place to stay. So, if you give me a ride, you can have a bed for the night. And I think we’ll move faster on him than on foot.” You nod toward his horse. 

He runs a hand down the horse’s mane. “Her.” 

“Excuse me?”

“Her. Roach. A girl.” 

He sounds so affronted that you lean down and give a quick glance under the horse. “And a beautiful one,” you said, straightening, tamping down the smile threatening to curl your lips. 

“I think we’ll be fine,” he said, sounding matter-of-fact. “But we can still see you home.” 

You go to him, protesting, insisting that he has no idea how the storms in this area go, but he’s already scooping you up. The moment would stick with you forever: you were astride the horse before you got your wits about you, his hands spanning your ribcage, your waist, brushing your breasts. He lifts himself up behind you, a solid wall of muscle, spurring the horse on. 

The ride is an agony of brushing bodies. 

Outside your little cottage, you dismount the horse, in much the same way you’d gotten onto her. The snows have already begun to accumulate, despite how fast and short the ride had been. 

Wordlessly, you guide the horse to the barn attached around the back. The movements come back to you like a memory. The way the snow quiets against the insulation.You put out oats and hay and fill the water trough. He watches you with narrowed eyes. 

He follows you back around to the front door, and inside. It’s that same dampening into quiet as you unwrap your scarf and cloak, stamping your boots near the door. He stands just off to one side, gazing around. 

There was still so much of your father in your home. His work, his hobbies, the few things in life that had made him smile, besides you. And yet, there is more and more of you in it each day. The little tools you gathered for cooking. The thread you had scrimped and saved and dyed yourself to make your embroidery projects. Your bed, large and piled high with blankets, to prepare for the winter season. 

To fill the silence, you say, “Your horse. I promise she’ll be warm there. The heat from the fireplace, it warms the horse’s addition. My father had this weather in mind when he built the house.”

Your eyes are greedy as they take in the bend and stretch of his body, as he removes his cloak and swords, standing them by the door. 

“And where is your horse?” he asks. 

You let yourself be quiet for a long time, busying yourself with putting water on the fire. You keep your back to him as you move through your tasks. 

“I sold the horse. We needed the money for medicine.” 

It doesn’t take him long to sort it out. “And how long has it been?”

You clear your throat, which is suddenly raw and hot. You wrapped both of your hands around the handle of your heavy iron pot. Dinner, yes. You would warm dinner alongside the water. “Two years.” 

He hums. He takes the length of the room in just a few paces (far fewer than your own) and is suddenly at your side, lifting the heavy stew pot. It’s the equivalent of you plucking herbs up from your garden. The weight of it is nothing to him. 

He hangs the pot above the fire, where the water has already begun to warm pleasantly. He considers you for a moment too long before heading back toward the door. He pauses, and turns back. 

“Is there any other assistance I can provide?”

You frown, arms banded across your chest. “The snow. It’s already gotten bad. You and Roach should at least stay the night.” 

He tilts his head in a drawn out shake. “I shouldn’t.” 

“I don’t think you’ll have a choice.” 

You gesture to the door, and he turns, casting you a look over his shoulder in the second before he opens it. There is nothing outside but white and darkness. It is a scene out of a fairytale, out of a witch’s curse. He closes the door again, and turns to you, face stoic. 

“It would be dangerous for Roach,” you say, chewing your lip to keep from smiling. 

He grunts, nods. You mirror the gesture before pointing to the water, warming beside the stew. 

“It’s not much,” you say. “Not enough for a full bath. But enough for two people to wash up.”

He lifts his eyebrows. Not surprise exactly, but you satisfy the expression by stumbling, explaining. 

“You’ll wash up there,” you manage, pointing to the door. It’s the only other room of the house. The room that was once your father’s. And the one he shared with your mother before that. Now, you rarely use it. It’d be just another place to heat and clean and this room suits you perfectly. But now it will afford both of you the privacy to wash and dress and sleep. 

You barely get a nod this time, but Geralt helps you sort the pots and the cloths and the scraps of soap until you have washing basins sorted for two. You rifle through a long abandoned chest, pulling clothes from its depths. 

“You’re a bit bigger than Father was, but he was heavier. They should fit fine enough.” You hand him the clothing. They’re nothing fancy. Soft, warm and well worn. 

You send him on his way with a lit candle. It’s only after he’s gone that your mind and body both begin to ponder what it is to have a _man_ like _that_ just on the other side of the door. You could remember the feel of his body, curved around yours on his horse. The hard lines of his thighs, the spread of his hands along your sides. The careful way he rode the line between casual and control. 

Just looking at him makes things in you come alive that you hadn’t known were possible. They were the things the other girls in the village whispered about. You finally understood the butterflies they talked about, what you were meant to hope for in that boy’s clumsy proposal. As you strip down and dip your cloth into the basin, your own hands feel suddenly alien. You touch yourself and imagine what it would be like if it were him. 

His hands running down your neck and cupping your breasts and parting your legs. It makes you crave. And _want_ , so selfishly, so intensely, it sticks inside you like a heavy meal. If he would just touch you, make you feel that fire-starting spark again, you’d never ask the gods for anything again. 

There’s an overdress. In your trunk. You’d always intended to sell it. When bunched together in your hands, the pretty fabric is like sparkling smoke. But when smoothed, you can see little but the glimmering embroidery, dense at the bodice and waist, before sparking off in finer and finer layers as it moves away from the body’s center. It was meant to add excitement to some wealthy woman’s dress, an easy layer to slip on and off. 

He knocks before he comes out. It’s so strangely, unnecessarily polite. You’re there, on the bed, knees tucked under you, in that very overdress. And nothing else. This might be your chance, after all. He’s no one sniveling son. No one’s seedy, propositioning stranger. He is a man that makes you feel, maybe for the first time, like a woman. 

He stills at the edge of the room. His gaze tracks down your body for a second so fleeting, you’d almost think it hadn’t happened, except for the stripes of fire so intense it was as if he’d actually touched you. The very moment after, his gaze finds yours. 

Geralt’s mouth firms into a severe line. “I think you’ll be cold, if you spend the rest of the night like that.”

It takes you a long time to find your voice: “I think that having you beside me will keep me warm.” 

His eyes close in a long blink, his mouth tipping up at the corners. When he opens them again, you’re on the other side of his full regard. He sighs, quietly, but wearily. He crooks his finger.

_Come here._

You try to get to your feet with grace, but you’re not sure it’s a success. Every rustle of the fabric against your skin is a delightful nightmare, making your body beg for more pulling and touching. You come to a stop in front of him, your heart hammering in your chest, blood in your ears. You can’t control the frantic pace of your hopeful breath. 

He settles his hands on your shoulders and smooths them down again and again, until your breathing slows to something like normal, until you’re only thinking about his touch. 

“Have you had a man before?” He asks. There’s no judgement in his tone, but your cheeks still grow hot. 

“No.” 

He pauses. He almost seems to grow gentle. “You are...a beautiful girl. But it won’t be me.” 

You frown. “Why?” 

It’s his turn to quiet. You know this look from other people’s faces, from the mirror perhaps. He has disappeared into a memory. Then, finally: “I have seen the horrors men visit onto unwilling women.” 

He won’t look you in the eye. The veins at the side of his neck and in the corded muscle of his forearms stand at attention, his jaw tightening, a ticking muscle giving it away. His nostrils flare as you take a step closer. 

Geralt doesn’t relax as you slide one hand down his shoulder to the broad plate of his chest. You let it linger there, waiting long, _long_ moments between his heartbeats. This next thing feels easy, as though your body knows what it wants to do, even if your brain does not. You rise up on toes to bring your mouth as close to his ear as you can without his help. Your voice drops to a whisper. 

“I want your horrors.” You pause. “And I’m willing.” 

His groan is a thousand things in one: angry and needful and possessive and animal. He turns to touch his face to your own. His stubble is the rough rasp of unhewn fabric, that pulls and prickles at your skin as he trails his nose up your cheek. He’s _smelling_ you, and the idea alone makes you tremble. He has to lean down so far just to get this close and you grasp at his shoulders just to steady yourself against the onslaught of him. 

When he speaks his breath is hot and wet against your ear, making you shudder. Making you pant. 

“You have no idea about my horrors.” 

His teeth clamp down on your earlobe and you cry out. A dirty swear you only ever mutter to yourself (when things have gone quite, especially, to hell), falls out of your mouth and you hold him tight to you. 

“Kiss me,” you say, and he groans again before pressing his mouth to yours.

His kiss is hotter and wetter than his breath. And you think he can’t know, he can’t know that this is your first _this_ too. He doesn’t know that this is as far as your dreams take you at night, your body _tense tense tense_ with something you can’t name. 

He hefts you properly into his arms, and you’re reminded of the stew pot--you are _nothing_ in the face of his strength. 

It makes your blood sing. 

His hardness notches between your thighs, pressing against that private place that’s already throbbing for him as he backs you toward the wall, pressing you there between wood and stone and him. It all feels the same: sturdy, scary, safe. 

He pulls away only when the options are your mouth and oxygen, and it still takes another moment for you to part, his lips whispering over yours. Your bottom lip slips between his teeth almost like an accident. But the pass of his tongue across the flesh there is deliberate and makes both of you hiss. 

“Your taste,” he murmurs. His eyes, those strange, unnatural eyes, soften slowly as he looks at you, stone eroding in the wake of _you_. 

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward to brush your mouth against his. A stolen pass that makes him tense against you, steal another. You wedge a hand between your bodies to part the overdress, to make one less layer of clothing between you. 

“You have no idea. No idea what you’re asking me for.” 

“Show me,” you beg, your hands fisting in the collar of his shirt. 

It wasn’t until later that you knew what’d snapped all that careful resolve. You grab his collar to pull him close, _keep_ him close, the chain of his necklace weaves between your middle three fingers like a lattice: _you, him, you, him, you._

He can’t get away without breaking.

“Show you,” he repeats. The words sound ripped from his throat, like they’ve clawed their way through a sandstorm just to get out. He shifts your weight until you're cradled in just one arm, and the other hand slides between your bodies, until it finds the ties at the front of his trousers. His hand is deft, undoing them until his hardness is free. There’s nowhere for it to go but wedged between your bodies. 

It’s obscene to you--long, thick, wet at the tip and so insistently hard against your stomach you can’t help but stare. But it’s also warm and the skin there is like the softest fabrics you own. 

“This is what you do to me,” he says, his voice low and stony. “Put your hand on it. Put your fucking hand on it because I can’t put it in your cunt.” 

You suck in a breath, any words you might have had, dying in your throat. You wrap your hand around him and it looks impossibly small against his length, the difference so stark it makes you go dizzy. 

“ _Tighter_ ,” Geralt says, sounding like a growl. He swears as you draw your fingers closer together. “Now, pull.” You’ve scarcely made it an inch before his hand descends on your own, bundling your fist under his much larger one, squeezing tight, pulling much harder than you would have, all the way to the tip, where your palm gets slick with him. And all the way back down the length again.

Both of you moan, breath mingling as you beg wordlessly for another kiss. He doesn’t give you what you want, panting instead as your hand moves up and down, getting slick each time, so that each pass feels easier. With every stroke he throbs more intently against your palm, his hips beginning to rock so he slides into your hands.

He groans, moving faster. “This is nothing. This is nothing compared to what I want to do with you. How I want to use you and your little body and your tight holes.” 

“Please,” you rasp. A second later the world becomes a blur, and then you’re between him and your bed. He says your name over and over as he plows into the tight fists of hands: yours and his. And you can’t help but watch the space between your bodies, half-mesmerized by what you see there, in the narrow hollow of your bodies. 

You repeat yourself, half lost to this _thing_ between you and you say, “Use me.” Geralt promptly explodes, covering your hand, your stomach, your sternum in sticky warmth. 

Geralt hovers over you a moment, catching his breath. Sweat shines on his forehead. “What are you doing to me?” 

You writhe beneath him, unable to shrug off that feeling that has knotted up inside you, that thing he’s woken up with his shoulders and the length of his legs and the way his tongue shapes your name. 

He rears back and stares at you for a long time, his breath slowing, until it seems finally that you both must be animals: _predator and prey_. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tilting his chin so slightly as almost to have never happened. “You’re so excited you can’t even keep still. You need me to make that feeling go away, don’t you?”

You nod feverishly, a torrent of _please please please_ falling from your lips. He lifts two fingers to his mouth and they come out slick and shining. As much as you want to watch what he’s going to do with that hand it’s his face that you stare at, the look on it as he parts your thighs and then--

You gasp as fingers pass over a spot between your legs that feels swollen and heavy and so incredibly sensitive you’re ready to lift right off of the bed. 

You clasp a hand to your mouth. It was as though your father never taught you shame, the way your hips cant up to rock against his hand. And there it is again, that blink and unwilling smile of his. 

His fingers drop lower and part you, dipping shallowly inside. 

“You’re fucking drenched,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, his fingers pass over that little spot again and your legs stretch out, toes pointing in sweet distress. Trembling, you’re _trembling_ because the pleasure is new, like nothing you’ve ever known. Like nothing you knew existed. 

“Geralt, please, I’m--I--I don’t know, something is happening.” 

He lifts his hand and you swear again, your brow furrowing so tightly, he actually smiles. He runs those fingers through the mess on your stomach. His expression is fierce, serious. 

“I’m going to get my cum in you one way or another.” 

Those filthy, sticky fingers slide inside you, and his thumb pushes against that little place and the cry that comes out of you is a strangled thing that you think might go on forever. 

The pleasure spins out of you in a million layers of impossibility. It’s the first sweet bite of fruit in the summer. Your freshly laundered sheets. It’s a heavy coin purse and freshly baked bread and pretty new thread, waiting to be spun. 

It’s Geralt of Rivia with his hand inside of you saying: “Yes, girl, that’s it. Your tight little cunt needed this.” 

When you can hear and see and think once more, he’s still on his knees between your legs and he has begun to get hard again, jutting out slightly from his pants, demanding your attention. 

Your hands cover your mouth again as you catch your breath. He watches you carefully, as if unsure what you’re going to do next. You wrestle your way to your elbows. 

“Is it like this? Always?”

His amber eyes close with a tight crinkle and open again with a cross between fire and amusement behind them. “Better.” 

“And you’ll show me?” you asked, excitement sending you to your knees too. 

“No,” he says stretching the word ever so slightly. He walks over to the basin and puts the back of his hand in the water. He returns with the cloth. The water isn’t hot anymore, but it doesn’t make you shiver as he begins washing your stomach, where he’s begun to dry on you. “You need to clean up. Your dinner is probably ready.” 

“And _then_ you’ll show me?” You say, gazing up at him. “Look. I survived your horrors and I’m no worse for wear.” 

He scoffs, getting to his feet and crossing his arms. “I have hardly begun to show you horrible.”

“I think I might like it if you...showed me more, then.” 

Geralt huffs a little sound that makes his whole chest rise and fall. But you noticed that he didn’t say _no_ again. 

“Dinner?” you ask, nodding toward the pot. 

He hums in agreement, you get to your feet, and together you begin to prepare your meal. 


End file.
